She looked away first.
My parents became more aggressive as the hearing approached.
My father came to my office.
He had never visited my office before.
He stood among models of houses and framed design awards as if he had accidentally entered someone else’s life.
“You’ve done well.”
I kept working.
“What do you want?”
“Your mother is sick over this.”
“Then she should stop helping Chloe sue me.”
He sighed.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Chloe has gotten her life together.”
“Good.”
“She has a good job. A home.”
“Good.”
“She deserves a chance.”
I set my pencil down.
“A chance at what?”
“To make things right.”
“With the kids?”
“Yes.”
“Then why isn’t she starting by saying she’s sorry?”
My father looked irritated.
“Because every conversation becomes an attack.”
“Dad, she vanished for twelve years.”
“She was unwell.”
“Then say that.”
“She was young.”
“So was I.”
That stopped him.
I stood.
“She was twenty-two.”
“Yes.”
“I was twenty-three.”
His jaw tightened.
“You were always more responsible.”
I stared at him.
For years that sentence had controlled me.
This time, it sounded pathetic.
“You don’t get to punish the responsible child because you expect less from the irresponsible one.”
His face went red.
“Watch your tone.”
“No.”
He blinked.
I had never said that to him.
“No?”
“No. I raised four children while you told me to handle it. You do not get to walk into the life I built and ask me to make Chloe comfortable.”
He left without saying goodbye.
That night, I opened the closet in my office at home.
Pulled down the filing boxes.
Leo found me on the floor surrounded by twelve years of paper.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing.”
He sat opposite me.
For a while we sorted silently.
Hospital statements.
Report cards.
